


Wait for Us

by Tainaron



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, dealing with the past, embracing the future, playful relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tainaron/pseuds/Tainaron
Summary: “You’re immune to my charms now,” Hawke lamented theatrically. “Romance is dead. They say all lovers tire of each other eventually, but I never believed—”Fenris, bemused, listened to Hawke’s performance.“—and now I learn that you were only ever after my good taste in furniture and fixings, and I’m stung, truly. It’s all coming to light now that I have none and you have nothing left to love me for and—”“You still have your bed.” Fenris pointed out.Hawke eyed the bedframe and stripped mattress.“Fenris,” He said with mock fierceness, “Your standards are low.”____Years after the explosion of the Chantry in Kirkwall, Hawke and Fenris make their way home to the Amell estate to face the ghosts it holds and to decide where the future will take them.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 15
Kudos: 92





	Wait for Us

“I never thought we’d be back here again.” Hawke said wistfully, running his hand down the doorframe of his old bedroom in Kirkwall.

Every inch of the former Amell estate —from the worn pillars framing the front doors to the inlaid wooden cupboards— had received the same pensive treatment at his hands.

And, as he had since they arrived, Fenris drifted behind him as he went, watching as Hawke tried to touch the ghosts of memory that lingered in every corner. He had nearly five years of pain and happiness to relive within these walls and it was not a weight borne easily.

Fenris watched Hawke as he drifted to the windows next and carefully, oh so carefully, turned the latch to push them open.

Sound filtered in from the street below first, followed by an adventurous breeze that began to chase the staleness from the air. Hightown thankfully didn’t stink like the docks of Lowtown, but the air still bore the salt of the great ocean that surrounded the city. It was a sting softened only by—

“I think your rose garden survived.” Fenris said.

They hadn’t ventured into the inner courtyard garden of the estate yet. Hawke had skirted the doors as though pretending not to see them, drawing Fenris into one of the estate’s sitting rooms instead. Fenris had marked it and stayed silent, trusting Hawke to face his own demons when he was ready.

But now Fenris could smell the heady musky fragrance clearly, if faintly on the wind. None of the other noble estates were close enough for the scent of their interior gardens to reach them. Their walls were too high, their distance calculated for maximum privacy.

“My mother’s garden.” Hawke corrected, his voice hitching, and he hid his face in one large, calloused hand. “Maker.”

Fenris closed the distance between them to lay a hand on Hawke’s back. He could feel the rise and fall of each unsteady breath beneath his hand as Hawke struggled to master himself.

“Hawke,” Fenris tried before losing his momentum. What could he say to a man who had lost everything here? His birthright before he was conceived, his younger brother to the deep roads, and his mother to a murderer… Hawke stood in his family’s ancestral home with only the most tenuously respected claim to the deed and no family remaining.

“I’m fine.” Hawke said unconvincingly, pulling the hand from his face. “I just— I didn’t expect it.”

And who could have? In the past, they had spent hours among Leandra’s blooms as Hawke shared his love and knowledge of plants with Fenris. Hawke had inherited his love of gardening from his mother, but his passion was honest and deep all the same. Fenris had admittedly paid closer attention to the excited lilt of Hawke’s voice, the way his eyes crinkled with each smile, and the closeness of their bodies on those nights— but he remembered enough to know that without water and pruning, the roses would have suffered.

After losing so much, why would Hawke have expected to be spared this last pain too?

Fenris slowly rubbed his back, giving Hawke time to collect himself. After a long, lingering moment, Hawke turned to give Fenris a weak smile and Fenris bumped noses with him, giving Hawke’s smile cause to turn genuine.

“Hello.” Hawke murmured as they stood close, foreheads touching. He leaned against Fenris with a sigh as Fenris wound his arms around him and drew him closer.

Fenris closed his eyes and breathed in with Hawke until both their breaths came slow and even.

“I remember this,” Hawke murmured wistfully, lips brushing Fenris’ as he spoke. “The first time you let me hold you in this room. I was so heady with the thought of it alone. When you kissed me I thought I was dreaming.”

Fenris remembered that night well. The sweetness of Hawke’s body against his and then the bitterness of forgotten memories that overtook him after their coupling. He had lingered on the phantom sensation of Hawke’s hands and mouth for months afterwards until he had won back his courage and made amends with Hawke for giving in to his fears and fleeing.

Letting go of the ghosts of the past in order to embrace the possibility of being with Hawke had been painful.

“I prefer thinking of other nights,” Fenris confessed in turn. “I remember when we would sit by the fireplace late into the night, never far apart. I remember when you tried on every outfit in your wardrobe until you found the one most likely to make the Templars weep with envy over your arms. I remember the bookshelf of tawdry romance you kept by the door— each spine creased from where you’d fold the book to read to me.”

Hawke chuckled, a warm breath over Fenris’ skin.

“Should I be worried that your happiest memories of my bedroom all center on the furniture?” Hawke teased.

“If I were chasing your goods, you’d know.”

“Would I?” Hawke said, voice suddenly sly. “And how would that go, if you were?”

Fenris’ hand dutifully dipped from the small of Hawke’s back to grip his ass.

Hawke laughed, delighted, and drew back, wiping at the corner of his eye to brush away lingering, unspilled tears from the shock of the roses.

“How forward! I was _trying_ ,” Hawke said, “to be romantic.”

“I’m swooning.” Fenris said dryly.

Hawke made a face and swatted him. But there was mischief in his eyes again and it made Fenris’ heart lighter to see it— Hawke had looked as though he were marching to his death when they’d begun their careful exploration of the estate. If Fenris could make him smile by indulging Hawke’s bawdy and dramatic sense of humor, he would.

“You’re immune to my charms now,” Hawke lamented theatrically. “Romance is dead. They say all lovers tire of each other eventually, but I never believed—”

Fenris, bemused, listened to Hawke’s performance.

“—and now I learn that you were only ever after my good taste in furniture and fixings, and I’m stung, truly. It’s all coming to light now that I have none and you have nothing left to love me for and—”

“You still have your bed.” Fenris pointed out.

The Kirkwall Rebellion, as it came to be called in later years, had spread chaos through the city like wildfire. Every street from Lowtown to the Gallows were a slaughter ground, but Hightown wasn’t left unscathed in the aftermath either. There had been a rise in looting as most of the city’s livelihoods had been disrupted and the hastily abandoned Amell estate had no one left to guard it.

Most of the rooms had been picked clean of lighter furniture and the trappings of wealth before Kirkwall’s elite had banded their personal guards together to drive the less fortunate out of the district. The larger furniture in the estate had, for better or worse, remained in place.

Hawke eyed the bedframe and stripped mattress.

“Fenris,” He said with mock fierceness, “Your standards are _low_.”

That startled a laugh out of Fenris. He savored the sensation, the way it rolled from his chest and how his lips curved into a helpless smile. These days, he never took happiness for granted.

“What kind of standards should I have, then?” He asked.

“You should try for sheets, _at least_.”

“I had sheets in Danarius’ estate,” Fenris reminded him. “And you still said that I lived in a filthy deathtrap.”

“There were corpses downstairs!” Hawke objected.

“Not in my bedroom, though.” Fenris said idly, more to entice Hawke to protest than anything else.

Hawke made a face.

“I don’t regret drawing the line there.” Hawke declared. “If I’m having sex, I’m having it in conditions that don’t involve two inches of dust and the risk of some kind of horrible infection, thank you.”

Fenris hmmed and went to inspect Hawke’s mattress. As Hawke might have feared, it was indeed covered in dust, though it remained in surprisingly good condition otherwise. The windows were doing a thorough job of refreshing the air in the room and Fenris was sure that the room would be habitable again in short order.

If Hawke decided to stay.

Fenris lay back on the mattress, looking up at the familiar ceiling overhead. He remembered the decorative whorls and trim that spanned the room surprisingly well, he thought. But then again, he’d spent many nights staring up at them with Hawke’s sleeping body beside him, thinking about how lucky he was to be there. To be free, to make his own future. To have found a lover who made his heart yearn for contact as keenly as Hawke did.

“And now you’re wallowing in the dust here too. Fantastic.” Hawke complained.

“You could join me if you want.”

“I’ve only _just_ finished telling you that I draw the line at lying in dust—”

“You said no _sex_ in the dust.” Fenris pointed out. He was settling into the mattress now, the everyday tension of his body slowly relenting. The sensitivity of his lyrium marks meant that the simple pressure of everyday activities — standing, walking, sitting, and more — often left his body strained and his muscles riddled with knots. It was a relief to unwind, though his ease came more from the familiarity of the room than just lying down alone.

Hakwe made an offended noise.

“Once more implying you have little interest in sex with me. Excellent.” He muttered woefully. “I’ve lost my touch.”

“Mm.” Fenris said noncommittally.

Hawke began to putter around the room once again, muttering to himself in mock outrage and lament by turns. Fenris tuned out the individual words with ease and let himself be caught in his own memories of the estate. Of this room. Of the bed— where Hawke nearly died recovering from the wounds the Arishok inflicted on him. The bed where Hawke used to tumble him onto the sheets and press a line of wet, beard-scratchy kisses down his throat, Fenris’ pulse leaping under the skin. The bed where Hawke had drawn the duvet around Fenris’ shoulders and had him hold out his hands to catch the first snowflakes he’d ever seen— summoned with infinite care by Hawke’s magic. The first magic he’d seen, felt, that hadn’t sent terror lancing through his spine.

A miracle made real by Hawke.

Their relationship exceeded the bounds of this room, of course. He had equally as many fond memories of them throughout the city. In the Hanged Man, watching Hawke laugh and squeal with excitement as he came out on top of another round of cards. Behind the Hanged Man, Hawke on his knees between Fenris’ legs, mouth hot on him even through his leggings. The docks at night with Hawke’s eyes sharp as they dodged yet another group of mercenaries. The trails of Sundermount, where they watched the stars together and Fenris taught Hawke the constellations of Tevinter.

Fenris had never regained something he’d lost before.

Not his memories.

Not his sister.

Not even the sense that his body belonged fully to him after the abuses Danarius had put it through.

When Hawke, wild eyed, had grabbed Fenris’ hand and ran after Anders blew up the Chantry and the Templars and mages came to blows across the city, Fenris had never expected to see Kirkwall again. He expected to lose every future walk through the streets, every unsaid word in hushed corners, and every kiss not yet shared by the sea.

And yet—

Here they were. Here they were confronting the unreliability of life and memory: the way time had softened the hardness of the city, the way it erased some realities all together, and the way it sharpened others—grief, bitterness, and possibilities once strangled on the vine and left to rot.

Fenris didn’t know yet which way the dice would fall for them. He’d never been good at predicting any of the games of chance their friends had roped him into. Sometimes, still, Hawke also surprised him. Fenris could see his lover choosing to stay in Kirkwall as easily as he could imagine him deciding to walk away.

It was a moment of indecision he’d felt before—a moment of possibility, caught between the past and the present.

Last time Fenris had faced that terror, he’d been in the same bed. Memories of a life before Danarius, before his markings, bearing down on him in terrifying intensity and colliding with the life he was trying to build by Hawke’s side.

It had been too much, then. He’d run from the possibility of both.

Now...

“Hawke.” Fenris called, swallowing.

Fenris didn’t know what Hawke heard in his voice, but the mattress dipped and Hawke was sitting by his side in a moment.

“Fenris?” Hawke asked, curling his hand around Fenris’ to give it a reassuring squeeze. “What’s wrong?”

Fenris couldn’t bring himself to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. He sat up and leaned against Hawke’s shoulder, bringing their twined hands up to kiss Hawke’s knuckles.

It helped.

He kissed Hawke’s wrist next, eyes falling shut for a moment as he concentrated on the familiar, comforting weight of Hawke’s hand. His callouses. The warmth of him that lit up every inch of his body as though he were burning within.

“Are you… trying to seduce me?” Hawke said, tone cautiously playful.

“Yes.” Fenris decided.

Hawke made a small sound that Fenris couldn’t interpret. His expression, when Fenris turned to look at him, was inscrutable too.

“Fenris.” He said softly.

“I like your bed,” Fenris said, voice low and deep and more vulnerable than he’d intended when trying for humor, “And I’ve decided to pursue your goods.”

Fenris touched his forehead to Hawke’s in a gentle echo of how he’d held him earlier. By now, he didn’t have to hear Hawke’s thoughts to know what must be going through his head. His concern for Fenris never failed to touch his heart.

“Kiss me?” He asked— and Hawke did.

Hawke’s attentions also never failed to encourage Fenris’ heart to beat faster.

And he’d come a long way from the skittish man he used to be, fearful of touch and also of its absence. Fearful even of recognizing his own emotions. Now, he cupped Hawke’s face with his free hand, side by side with the man he loved, and allowed himself to just feel.

With Hawke by his side, he felt safe. Safe enough to confront the have-been’s and could-have-been’s of the life they left behind here, for better or ill. Safe enough to savor his own desire— like embers of a fire waiting to be stoked. He catalogued the scrape of Hawke’s beard against his face, the soft, slick brush of his tongue, and the way Hawke rubbed Fenris’ hand with his thumb oh-so-slowly as they kissed.

And Fenris—

Fenris _wanted_.

“Are you sure,” He said when they parted to breathe, “That you won’t reconsider about the dust?”

“Mmm...”

“Even if you were standing?” Fenris fished.

“You really are trying to pursue my goods.” Hawke teased. There was something kind in the set of his eyes and the first hints of laugh lines around his mouth that had Fenris’ heart aching. That ache— the ache that once made him so anxious that he would pace or flee before he realized it was love— was everything to him now.

“I could also hold you up if you don’t want to stand. You wouldn’t have to touch the dust at all.”

He could see Hawke’s eyes dart down to his lips again as he turned over the thought. It was a dirty trick to appeal to Hawke’s weakness for Fenris’ supernatural strength. But desire was starting to course through him now as he thought of ways to touch Hawke and he could see the hunger echoed in Hawke’s gaze.

“You don’t want to wait and go back to Varric’s?” Hawke asked, voice soft and conspiratorial, and more teasing in tone than persuasive, “There’ll even be _sheets_. Dust-free sheets.”

“Have I lost my touch? Oh, where has the passion gone if I can’t seduce a man in his own bed?” Fenris teased in turn.

Hawke nearly laughed too hard to press a quick, chaste kiss to Fenris’ lips.

“That’s _my_ line,” Hawke whined. “Alright, fine, I’m convinced, forget Varric’s— lie back.”

Fenris squeezed his hand before letting go and lying back as he’d been before: his upper body sprawled out on the mattress and his knees hooked over the edge of the bed. He looked up at Hawke, who smiled down at him.

Then—

Then his hand was ghosting over Fenris’ cock through his tights and Fenris’ breath caught in his throat.

“I still can’t believe you wear these.” Hawke sighed, “I mean, no complaints here, but everything is very _visible_ , you know?”

In answer, Fenris rolled his hips up to push into Hawke’s hand— warm against him even through the thin fabric.

“Yeah,” Hawke said, his voice breathy in the way it did when he was trying to sound calm even as his heart raced. “Guess you know.”

Hawke’s hand tightened around him briefly before he rubbed his palm over Fenris’ length, slowly coaxing him to hardness. The drag of fabric over his bare cock was a maddening, but familiar sensation. Usually, though, Fenris was on the edge of drunk and listing against Hawke in the bar by the time Hawke’s hand found him under the table. It was never long after that they would find a private corner for Fenris to return the attention.

Fenris let out a shaky breath and reached for Hawke in turn, running his fingers down his arm.

“You could cover me with your body instead of your hand.” He offered. “Then nothing will be visible.”

“Oh, well if you insist—”

Fenris felt an answering laugh roll through his chest, though the sound barely escaped him. The bed dipped as Hawke moved to straddle him, leaning forward to let his forearms bracket Fenris’ face.

“Don’t laugh at me, I’m crawling around in the dust for you.”

“I’ll stop laughing.” Fenris promised, wrapping his arms around Hawke’s waist.

Hawke smiled, eyes wrinkling at the corners, and answered, “I like your laugh, just don’t laugh at me. Laugh because I’m making you happy.”

“You always do.” Fenris murmured and—

And then Hawke’s body was a familiar weight on his, bearing him down against the mattress. This mattress. Lingering memory had him rolling his head back and Hawke’s lips chased the movement to kiss his bared throat while Fenris rocked his hips up against Hawke’s in a slow roll.

Fenris looked up at the ceiling and—

It was all painfully familiar. It wasn’t the intense flood of feelings he’d experienced not long before and it was painful in a way that didn’t douse any of the fire of desire burning in him. His chest ached and he closed his eyes against it all, but continued to cling to Hawke. He didn’t want to run. He wanted to ride this feeling out and find peace on the other side.

“Fenris?” Hawke breathed against his neck, his beard tickling Fenris’ skin as he spoke.

“I’m with you.” He promised.

He wasn’t with Danarius in his thoughts tonight.

“I missed this.” Fenris realized. “I missed being with you, here.”

_Here in Kirkwall. Here in your bed. Here, in a place that was our own and not on the run, on the road, too many nights in the cold and looking over our shoulder—_

Hawke shifted and Fenris opened his eyes, his gaze meeting Hawke’s.

It struck him how tender Hawke was when— instead of making a joke— Hawke pressed his forehead against Fenris’ gently.

“Me too,” Hawke confessed. Then, his voice a whisper: “Fenris— do you want to stay?”

Fenris paused.

They hadn’t discussed it when they came back to Kirkwall at Varric’s request. They had just… packed up their things and came like it was the next step in their wandering.

And now, Fenris thought of the pain in Hawke’s eyes as he walked through the ransacked estate. He thought about their friends— scattered to the wind these days— and how there would never be the same carefree nights at the Hanged Man again. Those days were done and even the stirring of memory couldn’t bring them back. Not truly.

But despite all that had happened, there was still a bed and rose garden in the abandoned estate.

And Varric, though he’d resituated himself in the Viscount’s estate these days.

And the long stretches of docks with the stars wheeling overhead in the dark of night.

Every yet-unshared kiss by the sea.

And there was still this— there was still _them_.

There would still be things that they would mourn and they couldn’t erase the past and all the losses that came with it. If nothing else, the city around them would forever bear scars that reminded them of everything that had happened. But they could refuse to let it spoil the future. It would be painful work but— what in Fenris’ life was worth having that hadn’t also cut him to the quick at least once?

“Yes,” He swallowed. “I do.”

Hawke cupped Fenris’ cheek, his face still pressed close to Fenris’ own, and he whispered in turn.

“Maker, so do I, Fenris. So do I.”

Fenris wasn’t surprised to feel the spill of tears against his cheek as Hawke’s voice broke on the confession.

“I’ll buy you sheets.” Fenris promised and was rewarded by Hawke’s wet, happy laugh.

“And you’ll dust the bed?”

“And I’ll dust the bed. And make sure there are no corpses downstairs.”

“You spoil me.” Hawke murmured. And then, even more softly, “I love you, Fenris.”

Fenris tightened his arms around Hawke, drawing him as close as their bodies could fit together.

“I am yours,” He promised. “And I’ll be here beside you.”

Hawke kissed his forehead.

“Well, if we’re staying… we might as well do all of this properly.” Hawke said slowly, chewing on the thought, “I guess we should pick up a few things.”

Hawke was right, but… Fenris shifted under him, his cock still half-hard and trapped between them.

“The sooner we get the sheets, the sooner we can get back.” Hawke promised.

“You want to leave without seeing the rest of the estate first?”

“It will wait for us,” Hawke said simply.

And, Fenris realized, it would. All of it would, until they were ready.

Hawke clambered off him and helped Fenris to his feet, taking a moment to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Just make sure you’re decent before we head out and are arrested on the streets because of your tights.”

“You could help with that,” Fenris teased. He didn’t truly mind if he had to settle himself but—it felt good to be at ease in his body. To pay attention to it, to own it, to inhabit it and to laugh and joke about it rather than feel trapped by others’ desires and his own shame.

“ _Sheets_ , Fenris.” Hawke insisted with a sniff.

“Alright, sheets first.” He agreed and followed Hawke out of the room.

He didn’t look back. After all, Hawke was right: it would wait for them.

**Author's Note:**

> If there's something you liked, feel free to let me know! It makes me smile :)


End file.
